


The Clobber

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Silver is actually everything to Flint, but now he just helps, but the good one, he can kill, he's like a wreck, the power of love i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silver is a storm - the one which takes your worries away; Silver is a pain - the one which makes you realize you're still alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clobber

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Смола](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635101) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 



Silver is a viscous syrup, which trickles out of the holed barrels and, thickening in the cargo hold's coolness, slowly fills the space, covers the vinous puddles and the unsheathed swords, and the fallen bodies, leveling their dimensions and painful sight with its sleek surface, which glistens greedily in the shadows.

Silver is a clobber, to which the fingers stick, in which the boots' soles plunge, which smears and taints with its anthracite blackness, and paralyzes.

Silver is a wax, pouring into the ears, enshrouding the thoughts, slackening their unresting race like the rapids hamper the run of the wild river.

Silver is a deceitful siren's song, which is hidden reliably under that wax, and it's  sonant, it's shrill, and it takes away the last crumbs of the peace, which is so hard to snatch while in the long-drawn sail.

Silver is an ash, blinding the eyes; the ash, rising like a stormy cloud above the vessel, which is blazing and sinking apace, burying someone’s harrowing screams in the crunch of its broken masts.

Silver is a lousy rum, tearing the throat at first and everting the body humiliatingly later on.

Silver is a ravishing lie, which fits the tongue so well and spreads obsequiously its comforting embrace.

But the syrup sweetens the taste, supplanting the bitterness of the memory, which, as stagnant water, poisons the whole organism.

But the clobber mends slits and seams, pushes the moisture away, keeping the hull’s boards, the riggings, the sails for another long voyage.

But the wax can paint the darkness in the shine of flame, which flickers as if it’s alive, which dances and guides to the right way.

But the feelings are not alien to the siren’s heart.

But the ash is short-lived, and the first trade-wind carries its caressing flakes away, beyond the clear horizon.

But the dime booze purges the stomach, where lays the dead cargo of the leaden and virulent regrets.

But the more convincing his lie is, the more sobering truth it has inside; and this embrace protects from the wrecking faults.

So Flint, choked with these waxen waves, makes his own guiding candle, and the firm scabrous palm leads his tired hands.


End file.
